


Gratitude

by babykid528



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [6]
Category: Music RPF
Genre: Dom/sub, Hair-pulling, Hero Worship, Kneeling, Light Dom/sub, M/M, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:51:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1647647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babykid528/pseuds/babykid528
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris owes everything to Sting. Everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on LJ in January 2012. I'm sharing it here now, with minor edits. 
> 
> This is a ficlet inspired by Chris' obvious hero-worship of Sting, and Sting's obvious fondness for Chris. I may have watched the Boston concert a few too many times. ;-)
> 
> **Disclaimer:** NONE OF THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED! Yes, Sting and Chris did meet one way or another and become friends, and Chris does consider his relationship with Sting to be a huge part of his success. The rest is just fiction, though.

Once upon a time, Chris was playing some sorry excuse for a jazz club on the outskirts of LA. There wasn't even a stage in the place, just a cleared out corner that could barely fit Chris and his four man band. The air was thick with smoke and the crowd loud, barely interested. 

All save one person.

Chris noticed him halfway through his set: Sting, sitting at the bar, staring attentively. For a moment, Chris stared back, dumbfounded. He finished the set, just barely, and while his band packed up, he approached the bar. Before he could even order a drink, Sting was pulling him aside, asking him to join him on tour, promising to make him a star.

It happened that quickly.

And now, Chris _is_ a star. He's on the road all year. Touring the world. Performing with amazing guest artists, an incredible band, his friends. And Sting. Sting is there too. In the audience. On stage with him. Backstage with him. Whenever he can be.

After his sets end these days, Chris signs CDs, poses for pictures, makes idle chit chat with actual throngs of fans. Some people follow him across the globe, pay to see him every year, buy every one of his albums. Twice. Success still tastes new to Chris, foreign even, no matter how many years go by.

When the last person leaves the club and the band is already on their way back to the hotel, or out for the night, Chris climbs into his taxi with Sting beside him. The pair make their way across the light-spattered city, chill with winter frost and bustling, even after midnight. They travel uptown to a hotel Chris could never have afforded before, take the elevator to the top. Chris barely makes it through the door to his suite before his legs give out and he's kneeling, breathless, while Sting slides the lock behind them and places Chris' horn in the corner.

The adrenaline pounds through Chris' ears, catching up with him, breaking through him like a wave. He's on top of the world. And he has this man to thank. This man who showed him everything. Who took him under his wing and thrust him out on stage for the world to meet and learn and grow to adore. This man, who taught Chris how to know what he wanted, what he needed, and how to get both. It's overwhelming. Chris has trouble remembering how to breathe.

Sting slowly stalks into Chris' line of view, an appraising look in his eyes, and all Chris can do is stare back at him. His vision blurs as he pants for air. All it takes is a step forward, and Sting's reaching his hand toward Chris, pushing his fingers into his bleach-blond hair. He tightens them slowly and Chris feels the muscles in his back begin to relax. Eyes sliding shut, Chris pushes up against the palm of Sting's hand. His mouth falls open and he sighs.

For years, Chris thanked Sting, publicly and privately, for the chance he was given to be someone. In the beginning, Sting used to protest, tell him it was all Chris' doing. False modesty, Chris called it. Sting used to assure Chris he had it the wrong way around.

Now, Chris barely manages to utter a hoarse _Thank you,_ lips chapped and red-ringed from the mouthpiece of his horn. Sting simply responds by tightening his fingers so his nails scratch Chris' scalp as he pulls Chris' head to rest against his hip.


End file.
